


one's not half two

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy laughs, mouth still open and the tip of his tongue dabbing wet against Matt’s collarbone. Foggy laughs and it feels like: A thunderstorm, a bolt of lightening, a hurricane licking over the thin skin that keeps Matt in one piece.</p>
<p>Foggy sighs, lips pressed shut long enough to kiss the boney mountain range of Matt’s clavicle, lifting his head momentary to say, “You should write for Hallmark, Matty. You’d make a killing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	one's not half two

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow it's finals time again and my hormones are all a mess so I decided to do what all responsible grad students do and write porn with 83% more accidental angst than originally intended. Oops.

Foggy laughs, mouth still open and the tip of his tongue dabbing wet against Matt’s collarbone. Foggy laughs and it feels like:

A thunderstorm, a bolt of lightening, a hurricane licking over the thin skin that keeps Matt in one piece.

Foggy sighs, lips pressed shut long enough to kiss the boney mountain range of Matt’s clavicle, lifting his head momentary to say, “You should write for Hallmark, Matty. You’d make a killing.”

Matt, shivering and overwhelmed already from nothing more than Foggy’s mouth on his chest and Foggy’s hair sweeping over his skin and Foggy’s scent—Foggy, Foggy, Foggy everywhere—tries his best to grin, but it goes wide, feels off-kilter and rough on his flushed features. “Ugh.” He exhales, his attempt at nonchalance failing, Foggy’s thumb fanning over his right nipple and Matt’s mouth falls open, his hips twitch. Somehow out of all the possible consequences he’d imagined when he worried about how Foggy would react to his abilities Matt never stopped to consider that Foggy would just have far too much fun with them. Usually at Matt’s thoroughly wrecked expense.

Foggy’s laughter huffs out of him, like a tea kettle warming, his weight solid and reassuring, bearing down over Matt and pressing him further into the mattress. Safe.

“There’s that Murdock wit you’re so famous for.” Foggy teases, swipes his thumb again, less of a tease and more of a promise, and Matt reaches for his face, takes it in hand—warm and soft and familiar—and brings their mouths together for a sloppy kiss. Foggy hums approvingly, left hand gripping Matt’s thigh and hitching it higher, fingers squeezing into the muscle so hard Matt groans.

“Foggy—” Matt pleas though he isn’t sure what’s he’s asking for (a kiss, a touch, Foggy’s mouth or Foggy’s voice or Foggy’s heart, Matt feels greedy with love).

“Shh,” Foggy whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of Matt’s nose before he’s slipping away, settling lower again, mouthing at Matt’s throat and Matt’s shoulders, Matt’s hand in his hair and Foggy’s mouth open against his chest, biting over his rapidly beating heart. “I’ve got you, Matty.” He says, tongue flicking out over Matt’s nipple and Matt whines, hips rolling against Foggy’s thigh, hard, rubbing against it for friction as Foggy sucks hard, bites just a little, a sharp short pinch of his teeth that makes Matt whine and grasp at the back of his head, desperate fingers clinging in his hair.

He might be talking again, he can feel his mouth moving but all he can hear is his own thrashing heartbeat in his head, his blood rushing through his veins and singing in his skin, in discordant harmony with Foggy’s body.

Foggy’s mouth drags across his chest, his warm tongue laps attentively while his left-hand grips Matt’s hip, urging him on as he rubs and jerks against his thigh. He’ll come like this, Matt thinks feverishly, humping Foggy’s leg like a desperate teenager, Foggy’s tongue warm over his skin and the scent of 2-in-1 shampoo in his nose. But tonight Matt wants more, wants everything, every part of Foggy he can have, any part he can steal away without Foggy noticing. Foggy lifts his mouth to say, “Do you still—can I fuck you, Matty—” before Matt can even form the words. Foggy too generous, which is just as well, Matt’s always been a clumsy thief anyhow.

Matt nods mutely, gasping a noisy mouthful of air, pushing at Foggy’s shoulders so that he can get enough space to turn on his stomach, knees braced on the mattress and forehead resting on his folded arms beneath his head. “Fucking hell.” Foggy breathes, sounding incredulous as though this were a first, open palm massaging at Matt’s hip, his ass, stroking down his thigh. “Forget Hallmark Matty, you could probably do porn and be out of debt in a year.”

Matt sucks in a laugh, turns his head so that his heated cheek rests against the back of his palm. “I don’t know whether to feel complimented or offended.”

Foggy’s hand smacks lightly against Matt’s ass, makes him startle and groan, hips rolling forward in search of friction. “Complimented. Definitely complimented.”

Anticipation curls inside his belly, licks up his spine as he listens to the quiet snap of a cap, the slick slide of Foggy’s fingers through the lube as he warms it before pressing inside Matt. Foggy’s careful, thorough, touch gentle and voice soft as he gets Matt ready, one finger, two. By three Matt’s keening, Foggy pressing kisses against his shoulder blades, praise ghosting warm over Matt’s skin. “You’re so good, Matty. You’re so pretty like this.” (It’s nothing like when Foggy calls him pretty at the office, glib and playful. Or even at Josie’s after a couple of drinks, when Foggy slings his arm over Matt’s shoulders and stage-whispers that Matt’s too pretty for Foggy’s own good. In bed, Foggy calls him pretty and his heartbeat is a sea-song, soft as fog, the truest north Matt’s ever known. Not because it’s true, but because Foggy means it, believes it.)

Four fingers and Matt can’t breathe, gasping into the mattress beneath him, fingers curling into the slippery sheets in desperation. He lifts his hips, feels shameless, silently begging Foggy to fuck him already, _please_ —“Okay, okay, I’m getting there, Señor Bossypants.” Foggy bites affectionately against Matt’s ear, pulling his fingers out—or maybe not so silently.

Foggy’s knees shift on the mattress, signal a retreat, and Matt groans, reaches back with a shaky hand to keep him close, grabs at Foggy’s side and digs into the soft give the carries over from his belly (the heat of his skin and the comforting weight of his body, his scent and the heart that beats all over Foggy’s skin and into Matt’s body to keep company with his). “Wait, don’t—” Matt grounds out, face blazing, “Can we—without it—” They don’t usually do this. Condoms are a godsend Matt thanks God for on an embarrassingly regular basis (“Does your priest know about this?” “Shut up.”), but sometimes, sometimes, they feel like a divide, one last barrier between them. And Matt knows even the romantic in him will be regretting it later when he’s cleaning up in the bathroom but right now it’s what he wants, what he needs, the noise in his head blissfully turned down, drowned out by his own rapid pulse and the overload of Foggy everywhere. But it isn’t enough.

Foggy’s heart actually stops and Matt thinks it must have been a while since they last decided to go without (yes, definitely a while. Matt still has vivid memories of Foggy researching the subject online when they had first started discussing the possibility, and then swearing they were never having sex again much less unprotected sex if it could lead to any one of the horror stories he’d stumbled upon on the internet). Regardless, Foggy’s heart picks up again, double time to make up the difference, his clean hand squeezes at Matt’s hip and he says, “Yeah, _yes_ , we can do that.” And Matt sags with relief, head bowed down to the mattress again, forehead hot against the back of his fingers.

There’s the slick, wet glide of Foggy stroking himself before the blunt head of his dick is pressing against Matt, and Matt sucks in a breath, holds in in his lungs as he rocks back as Foggy pushes forward, slow, so slow, Matt doesn’t want slow but maybe it’s what he needs, overwhelmed and on the cusp of bursting.

Foggy feels huge, God, but it’s more than that. He feels hot, hotter than usual with nothing between them and Matt doesn’t know how much of that is the power of suggestion, he just knows he has to bite at the meaty muscle at the base of his thumb, dig his teeth in to keep the embarrassing needy noise that rises in his throat locked away.

Foggy’s fingers rub at Matt’s hip, stroke up his side, his other hand stays firm at the small of Matt’s back, holding them both steady. He moves and Matt moans, a small helpless exhale that gets muffled by the mattress, fingers seeking purchase in the sheets. Foggy groans Matt’s name, his hand leaves Matt’s back to circle around his hipbone, pull him up a little so that Matt lifts up to his elbows seeking better leverage. “Yeah.” Foggy agrees, and Matt bites his own lip, pushing back into the next thrust. Foggy’s other hand drags over Matt’s chest, rubs over his nipple before Foggy moves it lower, nails barely scratching over Matt’s stomach before his fingertips brush against Matt’s erection. “Foggy—” Matt gasps in supplication, not remotely ready for this to end yet, full and burning and lost in his own want, the world outside shut out, everything narrowed to this, to them.

Foggy lowers himself against Matt’s back again, hot sweat-slick skin, and Matt whimpers at the short sting of Foggy’s teeth at his shoulder and the gentle kiss that follows. “Do you think you can come like this?” Foggy asks, voice full of wonder, “Without me touching you?” and Matt twists, plants a kiss on whatever part of Foggy he can reach like this.

“Harder.” Matt pleas, nodding dumbly, “Please.”

But Foggy doesn’t go harder, finds a steady pace of long deep strokes, one hand coming down to brace himself on the bed while his other hand plays across Matt’s chest again, twisting his nipple hard. Matt unravels, mouth moving without his consent, an endless babbling stream of praise and devotion he’ll be embarrassed about tomorrow, Foggy’s name catching on his teeth as he rocks back onto Foggy’s dick. “Please, please, just—” Foggy bites and his fingers twist and he thrusts in hard and Matt can’t, overcome with sensation, comes in a mess of shaking limbs and collapses face first into the bed.

Foggy’s hand strokes over Matt’s still twitching cock, spreads the mess of Matt’s own come down the length of it and Matt squirms, his insides white-hot and everything _too much too much too much_. He whines and Foggy lets him go, pulls away slowly and carefully and Matt’s aching, his knees sore and his ass empty.

He can hear Foggy’s hand close over his own dick again, still wet with Matt’s come and fresh lubricant, the effortless glide of it over Foggy’s erection. Matt breathes hard as Foggy’s breathing goes erratic, the mattress springs creaking with the force of his movements. Matt rolls on his back, grabs at Foggy and brings him back, cradles him between his tired legs as Foggy jerks himself off. Foggy comes with Matt’s name smothered between their swollen lips, hot over Matt’s stomach. (“You were gonna shower anyhow, right?” “Ugh—you’re such a jerk.” “Whatever Murdock, you can’t get enough of me.” He’s not wrong.)

There’s a blissful grace period between his orgasm and reality sinking back into focus. Foggy at his side, warm and relaxed, wiping at Matt’s stomach with the loose sheet (“Hey you came first! We were definitely going to wash those.”), nosing at his shoulder. “You feeling okay?” He asks softly, resting his hand flat over Matt’s slowly relaxing heart.

Matt nods up at the ceiling, turns his head to knock it against the top of Foggy’s. Foggy smells like sex and coffee and, of all things, licorice.

“No reason not to be.” He says lightly, refusing to think about the dishonesty inherent to the statement. Tonight isn’t going to be a night for self-loathing or guilt. He won’t let it be. Tonight he’s going to wrap Foggy in his arms and concentrate on their hearts, beating in congruence with one another. Matt won’t even have to ask Foggy to hold him in return, Foggy’ll do it regardless. Tonight he won’t let himself think about the people out there, the ones he isn’t helping. The devil can’t be in all of Hell’s Kitchen at once, and neither can Matt Murdock. He’s one man, and a selfish man at that. And tonight he chooses Foggy, and by extension himself. Chooses to be warm and safe and loved in this stolen moment of time. It’s more than Matt deserves, he’s sure, but he’ll take it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by e.e. cummings. 
> 
> Also, though I have not yet finished season two I have been traitorously spoiled on a few points by people I once trusted so I'm finally back on [tumblr](http://the-space-narwhal.tumblr.com/). Follow me there for crazy pointless ficlets about these crazy avocados!


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